


We're Alone Now [And I'm Singing This Song For You]

by megyal



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Amnesia, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-11-10
Updated: 2006-11-10
Packaged: 2017-10-27 04:46:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/291763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/megyal/pseuds/megyal





	We're Alone Now [And I'm Singing This Song For You]

Patrick sat beside Pete's bed and waited for him to wake up. Sometimes it took a long time, like watching a diver slowly resurface so as to prevent the bends; other times, more often than not, he would snap awake, sharp as a match being struck, wide eyes and wild hair and shivery limbs, and Patrick would be there to put a hand on his arm, and murmur nonsense at him.

Today was a slow day, so Patrick had to be careful. Pete sighed luxuriously, and twisted in the bed so that the white sheets spun like light across smooth golden skin, his hand flung out, asking to be grabbed, but Patrick kept his own hands locked in his lap; he didn't want to frighten Pete. He would have enough on his mind later. Pete's eyes slitted open, and he gave Patrick a slow grin.

"Hey," he said, voice soaked in sleep. "Bring me coffee?"

"Yeah," Patrick said, mindlessly going through the script, picking up Pete's glasses and handing it to him. "And some cookies."

"Cookies in the morning, man. This is the life." Pete swung his feet out of the bed, hitching at those awful bartskull boxers and scratching at his ribs absently. He shuffled past Patrick's chair, placing a large sloppy kiss on top of Patrick's hat, and went to get a piss. Patrick then listened to him singing that Leon Russell song on the top of his lungs as he brushed in teeth, and then Patrick knew the exact moment when he discovered the two newspapers that Patrick placed every morning on top of the toilet seat. He could almost imagine the wrinkled frown on Pete's face, toothbrush sticking out of one side of his mouth, and then he heard Pete continue to brush his teeth slowly, because Pete liked clean teeth, no matter what, and then there was the rinse, and here he was, his face and eyes trying to make all into a joke, because something this elaborate was more his forte.

"Ha, ha, Patrick," Pete said drily, waving the two newspapers. "Who'd you get to do these for you? Not very good taste, about me and the accident, I have to say."

"Pete." Patrick's voice was warm and cold all at the same time. "There _was_ an accident."

*

The doctors said it was anterograde amnesia, where new events were not recorded in Pete's long-term memory, but Patrick broke it down for himself, and it meant Pete's life simply stopped at twenty-seven. On top of all the things Pete had to deal with, he would face the world forever young. For a person with a Peter Pan complex, Patrick thought, this was the worst irony ever. The thing about Pete, though, that being naturally unstable and not quite sane, Patrick wasn't too sure from day to day how he would take this information.

Some days he would sit on the bed beside Patrick and become completely undone as he realised just how much dreams were simply halted in mid-air, while the rest of the world spun happily into the future; a lot of mornings, like this one, saw Pete locking himself in the bathroom, with Patrick leaning worriedly against the door, knowing he was reading the first newspaper, dated August 10, 2006, and then perusing the second, dated maybe May 10, 2008, or possibly November 13, 2010; Pete liked to be kept up-to-date. Even if he wouldn't remember the very next day.

He would emerge, just like he was doing now, and try his best to grin at Patrick, but it would fall flat on the ground between them. Patrick handed him the notebooks.

"You still write lyrics," Patrick said gently, leading him to sit down in a plush red loveseat near the bed. Pete eyed it warily, not recalling that he himself had bought it in a fit of redecoration, just to freak himself out the following day. "People still like them...and use them."

"I do?" Pete grabbed the nearest book, and flipped through quickly, absorbing words that he did not remember treasuring. "I do," he said, softly, running his fingers over the words, trying to pull them back in. Patrick was always amazed at how Pete underestimated himself. Pete turned to him. "Do you?"

"Yeah, yeah. Ryan likes some of the stuff."

Pete shook his head, as of trying to remember, and he picked up another notebook.

"This is one of our diaries," Patrick supplied. "I remember...so you can too."

Pete's eyes were carefully trained away from him, reading voraciously. He let out a desperate chuckle at one entry, and Patrick saw him silently mouth the name of the band Andy and Joe were in now. He smiled a little, but Patrick saw his mouth twist right after, and he reached out and flicked the page rapidly.

"Have they...do they come to see me?"

"Oh, yeah. When they're not on tour." Patrick breathed. "Joe bugs you every day. And Andy kicks his ass for annoying you. It's fun."

"I bet." Pete read through Patrick's sloping handwriting, snorting a little at the dry humour that bled out of the pages. There were notes in Pete's own handwriting jotted in the margins, excitable and sad, and Pete felt like tearing down the walls of his room until this untrue reality tumbled over into the marigoldes that the neighbour had planted next door (unless they planted the rambling rose). To Pete, he clearly remembered getting up yesterday and taking the car out to the studio. He remembered this, and it was one day five fucking years ago, and this was so not fair, just when they were getting-

"It's okay," Patrick said, trying to take the book away, but Pete clutched it to himself stubbornly, widening his eyes at Patrick until he backed off, sighing. Pete flipped it open again, and read a couple more entries, before stopping at one. Patrick held his breath.

 _Taking you to see a game is pretty fucking_ not _awesome, because you drink too much soda and then want to go to the bathroom, and I have to go with you because you are a pussy and WE MISS THE HOME-RUN OF THE CENTURY, WORLD SERIES, OH MY GOD. I don't even like baseball, but you sort of do. At least, you seemed to like it today.  
When we reached home, you kissed me, Pete. There. It's out. I'm sorry it seems so, I dunno, blah, but it was anything but._

In Pete's handwriting, quarantined behind the margin-line, was a smug scrawl: _It was good. I liked it, and I'll do it again. And again. In other places._

Pete's hand shook, and the book fell from his hands.

"How can you stand it?" He moaned, covering his face with his hands and not crying, no, not at all. "I'm a dead-end, Patrick. I'm on a fucking loop. How the hell can you take it?"

Patrick said nothing, but leaned against Pete as he sat in the scarlet love-seat, not-crying.

*  
Pete found out that he was an excellent cook, something that shocked him as he went around the kitchen with automatic ease. Patrick told him about procedural memories, facts that Patrick drilled into his head everyday, easy repetitive tasks that were easier for his brain to hold onto. Unlike most anterogrades, who could be aware of their condition, Pete was as _carte blanche._ His face wrenched as he stirred the mince for the shepherd's pie, and Patrick set the table with a resigned air. Pete wondered if he always set the table with that look on his face, and he was almost sure that Patrick did; it seemed the very air around the dining table was steeped in a sort of weariness.

*

They went to the state-fair, and even though Patrick didn't like roller-coasters, he still went up in a fairly mild one with Pete, who actually managed to write two lines of lyrics in the middle of screeching in the air. They ate cotton-candy, even though Pete had had some for dinner a week (and five years) ago. They walked and talked and Pete thought that if he tried hard enough, if he just made a little effort, all these memories would stay in his head tomorrow, and Patrick wouldn't have to do this again.

 _How can he do this?_ Pete thought as they stepped inside the apartment. _He must get tired of me._

Patrick went inside before him, slinging off his jacket and putting on a CD. Leon Russell's homely voice wafted through the small living-room, and Pete froze in the middle of yanking off his own hooded sweater.

It was the song he had been singing this morning.

"You remember this song, most times," Patrick said tightly, staring at Pete, his eyes pained. Pete folded his lips in and pulled off the jacket all the way.

"When _don't_ I remember it?" _He's going to leave me, because it's just too much._

But Patrick was moving much closer, wrapping his arms around Pete, and squeezing him very tightly, and then he was singing the words against Pete's mouth, something like _There's no one more important to me darlin' can't you please see through me cause we're alone now and I'm singing this song for you,_ and Pete was _finally_ crying, because this would be all he had left come tomorrow, when the day was reset for him, and the only thing that he would bring was a song that was pressed into his brain by force of Patrick's voice and mouth, and please, _god_ , don't let Patrick leave him. Please.

*

Patrick watched him fall asleep, knowing that exact moment when the line in the dust was erased, and Pete went back to yesterday.


End file.
